


Bitter Words for a Bitter Winter

by Ozie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26919157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozie/pseuds/Ozie
Summary: This is only a short chapter for now while I get a couple of others sorted. May post another within the next day or two. Hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 9





	1. In The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is only a short chapter for now while I get a couple of others sorted. May post another within the next day or two. Hope you enjoy!

_In the beginning, there was an angel and a demon. Six thousand years and two months later, they were still here, alive and kicking in the busiest city in England, if you could call an angel and a demon alive. Aziraphale had made fewer book sales than he had in a century—a proper profit, of this he was certain!—and Crowley had hoarded as many plants as he could fit in his plant room without sauntering into them._

_They spent the first two months of The Rest of Their Lives wondering, waiting, watching. They checked for lightning bolts that would split the world in two, or a supervolcano that would swallow London in ten minutes, or both._

_Except, what split their world was nothing celestial, nothing I did, for it was all of their own volition._

_“And what about that sword? The fuck’s that doing here?”_


	2. Two Months Into the Rest of Their Lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is a tad late, got a bit stuck. Hopefully, you enjoy it anyway!  
> Side note: this does deal with PTSD-induced dreams. Just thought I'd add this as a warning before you continue reading.

Slush sprinkled the ground outside of the Bentley, turned brown with the old tyres and new tyres and various pairs of feet that trod these very streets and roads. Crowley, huddled behind the wheel, sipped at his coffee.  
Being a cold-blooded demon, going out in the cold with nothing more than a thick jacket and a coffee was not an option. Not like humans could, anyway. He would have to bundle himself up to the point of an accident in order to walk around London in winter. Luckily, A. Z. Fell and Co was right on the corner, with a special parking spot mapped out just for Crowley.  
Crowley took another sip of his coffee and stared out of the wind shield. The Bentley swiped away any snowflakes that landed on the glass, and it played only the softest of Queen songs on the radio. His car, his beautiful Bentley, still at his side after Almost-Armageddon.  
Even now, he could hardly believe it.  
Sitting back, Crowley stared at the sign on the door. Huge green letters screamed the word OPEN, despite the lack of foot traffic going in and out of the shop, if the powdered step was anything to go by.  
In fact, the streets were almost abnormally empty for a half-term in November, in London of all places in England. Trust me when I say, Crowley had seen busier streets in the pensioner-filled village of Cottingham.  
Crowley shrugged and clambered out of the Bentley, taking his coffee with him, a scarf of deep red wrapped around his neck. The cold air whipped his coat and the tendrils of his scarf, but did little to stop him from going up to the bookshop door and peering inside.  
The door opened without any interaction from him.  
“Damn,” Crowley whispered to himself, stepping over the threshold and into the warmth of the bookshop. “Angel?”  
“Yes, dear?” came Aziraphale’s reply from the next floor up.  
"Jus’ checking you were in.”  
“I’m always in, Crowley. You know that!”  
Crowley smiled into his coffee and stared at the bookshelves not too far from him. Unfortunately for Crowley, most of their colours washed into a multitude of false ones, with only the titles making themselves prevalent. Or they would if for whatever reason they were not blurred.  
“Hey, Angel?” Crowley called, going up to one of the bookshelves and peering at the spines.  
“Yes, Crowley?”  
“Somethin’ up with your books? I can’t see the titles.”  
Aziraphale did not answer immediately. It was only when he had rushed over to the iron staircase and stared over the edge that he asked, “I beg your pardon?”  
“I can’t read these,” Crowley said, sneering at the wish-washing of colours. “Somethin’ wrong with them?”  
“Why on Earth would there be anything wrong with my books, my dear?” Aziraphale’s shoes clambered down the stairs and thudded on the floorboards until they carried him up to Crowley’s side. He peered at them, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, and shook his head. “I can read these fine, Crowley.”  
Crowley frowned.  
“It may just be your eyes, dearest,” Aziraphale suggested, smiling. “After all, serpents don’t have the greatest of eyesight.”  
“S’pose we don’t have 20/20 vision ourselves, do we?” Crowley took a gulp of his coffee and shook the cup. Only half of the coffee remained. “You had any customers today?”  
Aziraphale shook his head. “No, not really. It’s been a lovely quiet day for me.”  
“Can’t have anyone buying anything from a bookshop, can we?”  
“Oh, shush, you sly old snake.”  
Crowley cackled. Aziraphale pouted and left his side to grab his overcoat from the back of the sofa by his desk. Like always, it was creaseless. Any creases that dared ruin Aziraphale’s overcoat he patted away instantly, without warning.  
“How about I close up early and present you to something, my dear?” Aziraphale said, shrugging on his coat.  
“You sure that’s a good idea?”  
“Of course! I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think it was.”  
Crowley thought about it for a second, then nodded in agreement. When it came to plans, Aziraphale definitely thought things through more than Crowley, Renown Impulsive Demon, would ever even think of doing.  
Aziraphale headed towards the back room, stopping only once to turn and say, “Flip the sign to closed for me, dearest. No one will bother coming in.”  
The sign clattered against the door, the green letters now facing inwards. Crowley finished off his coffee, took off his jacket—was it getting warmer?—and followed Aziraphale into the back room. Or tried to.  
“Oh—not quite yet, dear,” Aziraphale said. He had a bright, wide grin on his face, one that set his eyes twinkling. “Let me get everything sorted, first.”  
Crowley shrugged. “Alright. Anything you want me to do?”  
“Er…” Aziraphale nodded towards the door and a long rectangular package. “Just grab that for me, my dear, and drop it off here.”  
The door between them clicked shut as soon as Aziraphale waddled into the back room. Crowley shook his head and went to retrieve the package. There was a certain smell about it, a kind of aura that made him hesitate, though Crowley does as Crowley is told… most of the time. Only if it’s Aziraphale, anyway.  
Within seconds, it was by the door, whatever was in it ringing in the silence after he had put it ever-so-gently on the floor.  
“What's in it?” Crowley asked, rubbing his ear.  
“Just a gift from an old friend!”  
“Is it meant to ring?”  
“Ring?” Aziraphale opened the door to the backroom and stared at the package, brows furrowed in confusion. “Did you drop it, dear?”  
“No.” Yes.  
Aziraphale smiled at him, a weaker one compared to just a couple of minutes ago, and dragged the parcel into the back room. Crowley attempted to follow, only to have the door shut on his face… again.  
“Sorry, dear, still working on it!”  
Crowley frowned and tapped his foot. Whatever it was, it was either big or a grand joke Aziraphale was about to play on him, which were growing ever more common in the past few months.  
Instead of moping about the closed door, Crowley decided to inspect the desk Aziraphale worked at. Old, yet miracled into health multiple times over the past century or so, it sat beneath a window that looked out onto a square filled with other shops and little apartments above them. As always, papers stacked themselves on one side, a cup of cocoa on the other.  
Crowley took one of the papers and peered at it. Once again, the words blurred together, leaving only dark smudges.  
“My dear,” Aziraphale said behind him. Crowley jumped. “You can come see it now.”  
“Right…” Crowley put the paper back on the pile, mulling over why he had suddenly lost the ability to read, and followed Aziraphale. He found himself quickly distracted by the overenthusiastic bounce in his step.  
“This must be some surprise,” Crowley commented, “if you’re this excited about it.”  
“Oh, I truly am, dear! It’s going to be quite the occasion, I believe.”  
Crowley grinned and slunk over to Aziraphale’s side as he opened the door. “What’ve you got up your sleeve, angel?”  
Aziraphale returned his grin with ease. “Just a little something.” He opened the door with a bow. “After you.”  
Obliging, Crowley headed into the back room.  
He stopped.  
“Angel… what the fuck is this?”  
Towering bookcases surrounded Crowley, much taller than usual, and dotted with crucifixes, rosemary beads, everything that would make any demon cry out in agony. Old floorboards barely supported his weight, a pool of blue an inch or two in front of him and, looking down, he noticed his black suit was gone, replaced instead by torn white robes with a single gold circle on the shoulder.  
The door locked behind him. Crowley spun, panic fluttering his heart, racing his blood, to see Aziraphale stood at the other end of the room—how he got so far away, Crowley did not know—flaming sword in hand, a dangerous look in his eyes.  
Other angels surrounded him, all plastered with the same featureless face, save for the same too-white, too-toothy grin.  
Crowley tried to protest. He tried to say anything, even if it was just a mixture of strange squawking noises and strangled hissing, but nothing dared leave his mouth. Nothing dared move. He stared, waiting unwillingly.  
“Burn the traitor,” one of the angels said, his voice echoing amongst the racks of books. His lips barely moved. “Destroy him, and your past faults will be forgiven.”  
Aziraphale said nothing. Only nodded.  
Satisfied, the angel spoke again. “K̷̡̥̬̜͇͛̽o̶̢̥͎̠̦̒͊̕k̸̦͕̠̞͈͆͑͗̌a̶̢̢̻͑͊̓̊b̸͓͙̹̎ͅḯ̷͕̓̅́ẻ̵͖͓̑͌͠ḽ̷̱̺͈̓̋̈́̓—” The name, one Crowley had long since forgotten, sounded more like a demonic screech than even he could muster. “—you’ve been sentenced with betrayal. Your punishment…” Somehow, the grin on his face grew wider. “Falling.”  
Crowley let out the tiniest squeak. Every muscle froze under his skin, leaving him standing at the edge of a hole, one filled with searing blue.  
Sulphur.  
“Have fun, Aziraphale,” the angel said. “Remember that he lied to you, too.”  
Aziraphale cracked his neck and grinned. “I do believe I will.”  
Crowley’s mind raced with curses both ancient and modern. He begged his fingers to twitch, or for his toes to curl, or anything that would get him moving. Nothing obeyed. It was like someone had welded his joints together, leaving him no more room to manoeuvrer.  
“Angel…” Crowley whispered, his sight blurring.  
Aziraphale refused to listen, it seemed. He took his time approaching, one step at a time, his sword twirling at his side, the flames growing brighter with every inch of the gap closed.  
“Angel, come on… You never—”  
“I may be an angel, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his brows furrowing, “but that does not mean you need to state it constantly.”  
Crowley gaped. The room around them both stretched and folded, Aziraphale still being far away but crossing a lot more ground than he should. His heart pounded in his chest. His blood roared in his ears.  
“I never lied to you!” Crowley cried, a crack in his voice. “I’ve—I don’t—Come on, angel!”  
One blink and Aziraphale stood directly before him, his sword keeping Crowley at a distance, not that he had any choice but to stay still. The flames threatened to lick his chin. They spiralled down the blade towards Aziraphale’s hand.  
“Aziraphale—”  
“You’re a demon pretending to do good,” Aziraphale stated. There was no room for debate. “That was the plan from the beginning, was it not?”  
Crowley opened his mouth to answer. All that came was a shaky breath.  
Aziraphale glowered. “Then you lied to me. You are nothing more than a demon. A monster.”  
A hand grabbed his throat and held him out over the hole, the heat scorching Crowley’s back. For whatever reason, despite the scream building deep in his chest, nothing came out. He stared his feet barely on the lip.  
Aziraphale’s smile darkened into something much worse. “And you shall perish for your crimes.”  
Crowley gasped. The hand tightened around his throat, and the sword bit into his stomach. The urge to scream worsened. Pain splintered across his torso, mixing with the demonic blood running through his veins.  
“The only difference this time is, well…” Aziraphale’s grip loosened. Crowley could hardly keep hold of his arm. “This time, you won’t come back.”  
Before Crowley could react—how he would have reacted, I have no clue—Aziraphale let go.  
Only then did a cry slice the air in two, shatter the silence of the angels standing watch, as the sulphur engulfed him, setting fire to every inch of skin, muscle, and bone.

*+_*_+*

Crowley’s eyes shot open. His throat burned, hoarse from the screaming that continued even in the real world. His quilt lay in a heap on the floor, sweat and—he would hope not, but it was true—tears soaking into his pillow, wetting his hair.  
When the screaming finally stopped, the angels and Aziraphale and that damned sword fading from his eyes, Crowley lay there, panting only for a minute before the ceaseless sobbing began.  
He pressed his hands into his eyes. He willed the tears to stop to no avail and shook in the near silence of his bedroom.  
The plants in the other room shook, too, for their God had just cried out for the past two minutes, and had not come to yell at them to grow better. They trembled much like he did: out of fear. Not for fear of what had happened to him, but out of fear for what would happen to them when he pulled himself together.  
In fact, if even the plants heard him, the old lady below certainly had. If Crowley had not been in such a state, he would have noticed the smell of freshly baked shortbread coming from her kitchen, with a dash of sweet fruit tea swirling in a lovely porcelain cup.  
Instead, all Crowley noticed was the quiet of the street below, and Aziraphale’s words echoing in his mind.  
He’s right, Crowley thought, doing so bringing another onslaught of a muffled sob. I’m just lyin’.  
It took half an hour—way too long, in Crowley’s opinion—for him to calm down enough that at least Aziraphale could make decent conversation with him, if he even wanted to. The soul-racking sobs turned into soft sniffles, the shaking dying down into stillness, the blurred gaze finally fading.  
It took another ten minutes for him to muster the effort to move.  
Crowley reached over to his bedside table and grabbed his phone and sunglasses. The time read 5:13, the darkness outside confirming it, and he let loose a soft, very Aziraphale-like curse.  
“Bugger.”  
Not that he had ever been told about that little incident.  
Sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose, Crowley clicked. His usual outfit appeared—he thanked me for that—along with an extra thick coat to combat the cold outside. If you shook his pocket, you’d hear a few things: his car keys, his spare pair of sunglasses, and a pack of cigarettes he kept for emergencies like this one.  
Just as Crowley clambered out of bed, smoothing down his hair, a knock came from the front door.  
“Fuck’s sake,” Crowley hissed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Probably some Jehovah's Witness or something.”  
Crowley made sure to give his plants a good glaring at as he passed. He had considerably more than before, not quite enough to fill his entire room, and every single one of them except for a tiny cactus quivered in fear. The cactus was the problematic one… and the one he liked most.  
Entering the foyer without so much as a glance at the office, Crowley’s hand hesitated over the doorknob. He peered through a tiny window in the door and, stood outside the door with something in her hands, fidgeted the old lady from the floor below.  
Least it’s not a Jehovah’s Witness, Crowley thought.  
Crowley opened the door, keeping his expression stone cold, even when he spotted the shortbread and tea.  
“ Hello, dear,” the old lady said, smiling warmly. “Are you alright?”  
“’M fine,” Crowley said.  
The old lady’s smile brightened, somehow. If Crowley was not wearing his sunglasses, he would have surely gone blind. “I was making some shortbread, I couldn’t sleep myself, and thought you might like some.”  
Crowley chewed on his bottom lip. “Did I keep you up?”  
“Not at all, sweetie. Though…” The old lady frowned. “You sounded like you were in terrible pain.”  
“Again, ‘m fine.”  
“Of course. Would you like some?”  
"Sure.” No.   
With a few seconds’ hesitation, she handed Crowley the tray with her wobbly hands. “Here you are, dear. Make sure you don’t burn yourself on the tea.”  
Crowley thought about the last time he had eaten anything, and figured it was around 1793, when he and Aziraphale went out for crepes. Gingerly, he grabbed the tray and mustered some kind of weird grimace-smile. “Cheers.”  
The old lady nodded, grinning from ear to ear, and hobbled off down the hall. Crowley found himself listening for her footsteps and the squeak of the door to the staircase before he dared shut his door. He convinced himself it was _not_ because she might fall.  
The tray clattered on the wooden desk before his throne, overlooking the balcony. The shortbread crumbled between Crowley’s fingers, the scent of freshness and sugar and fruit tea filling his office. He licked one of his fingers, decided the shortbread was much nicer than he wanted to admit, and took the tea outside with him.  
Far beyond the blocks of houses, towards Aziraphale’s bookshop, the stars winked at him. Crowley ignored them. The stars, one of the very things he helped create, could leave him alone with his tea that night. There was no way a daydream was getting past the fog of cigarette smoke.  
Not while he was still breathing.  
With the tea resting on a little outdoor table, Crowley pulled a cigarette out of his packet and clicked his fingers. The tiniest spark of Hellfire danced on the tip of his finger, big enough to light it, not big enough to get out of control. He could not help but wonder if smoking was disallowed in Hell. There was no reason why, really, since they were demons. They had to set a bad example anyway.  
Putting the cigarette to his lips, he took a long drag and held it for a few seconds. His heart began to quieten, as did his racing thoughts. The taste of tar. The smell of smoke. They were all Crowley allowed himself to focus on.  
And then, Crowley exhaled. Slowly. A greyish cloud formed before him, only for the wind to whip it away.  
The tea, he decided, is for after. The last thing he wanted was for Aziraphale to notice the monstrous—Crowley frowned—habits he had developed, all to deal with nightmares, and he could use the tea as an excuse.  
Not to drink it, of course. But to spill it on himself and pretend it was an accident.  
By that point, however, the sun would be hanging in the sky, Crowley’s multiple cigarette buds littering the balcony he had stood on until a few moments before.


	3. The Flaming Swords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably just gonna post on this whenever I feel like it at this point. I was going to do a weekly update but I find it slightly more amusing to do it at random. Besides, I doubt I'd stick to weekly deadlines. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

“They didn’t really capture my likeness, did they?”  
Crowley eyed the painting in an attempt to keep his eyelids from slamming shut. The title, etched into a shining golden plaque, read The Angel of the Flaming Sword. Of course it was meant to be Aziraphale. Who else would it be, logically?  
And yet, it looked nothing like him. The artist has dressed him in robes far more suited for Crowley, his hair long and golden—it had never been anything but white and short—and sword, for once, in his possession for good.   
The way this painting stared into Crowley’s soul made his skin crawl. He could not look at it for long.  
“Sure didn’t,” Crowley mumbled.  
Aziraphale hummed at his side. He had rung up at about eight that morning, a few hours after the nightmare, and invited Crowley out for a trip to a pop-up art gallery. With nothing better to do, Crowley obliged.  
“Are you sure you’re alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asked.  
Crowley grinned at him. “’M just peachy, angel.”  
Aziraphale frowned. “You have bags under your eyes.”  
“Wot? Was just up doing demonic things last night, that’s all.”  
“You hardly ever miss a chance to sleep, my dear.”  
“And yet I’ve gotta do my jobs.” Crowley stuffed his hands into his pockets and wandered down the hall, peering over the edge of his sunglasses to stare at numerous disgustingly religious, and disgustingly wrong, portraits.  
For example, they got Gabriel’s hair wrong. Instead of being a short, choppy brown, they gave him curls, of all things, and a more colourful set of attire than he would ever wear. And the staff? Not Gabriel’s style.  
“Gotta admit, the Gabriel in the paintings look a lot better,” Crowley said, grinning to himself.  
“I can hardly agree,” Aziraphale murmured behind him. “He doesn’t look good at all. Never truly has, either.”  
Crowley turned to face Aziraphale, his grin growing. “Oooh, look at you with the burns for the great Archangel himself.”  
“They’re hardly burns if they’re the truth, dear.” As much as Aziraphale tried to hide it, Crowley could see the smile peeking out from that half-assed façade of professionalism even outside of his bookshop.  
“That’s what burns are, angel.”  
“Oh, shush.”  
Crowley batted Aziraphale’s dismissive hand away and continued through the winding halls of the art gallery, the angel at his side talking about how inaccurate every artist was, and how half of the archangels on display were female-presenting, not the opposite. Crowley barely listened. His mind was elsewhere.  
A crawl traced Crowley’s skin, leaving it tingling.  
“Michael hardly looks like that,” Aziraphale said with a disappointed scowl. A young couple stared at him, a weird expression on their faces. Crowley resisted the temptation to hiss. “She’s not even—”  
“Shush, angel,” Crowley muttered. “People are lookin’ at you weird.”  
“They always do, dear.”  
Crowley frowned and stared back at the two women. They looked away, but not before Crowley could glean the panic in their eyes.  
“I must say,” Aziraphale began, boredom both dulling and sharpening his words, if that was possible, “I’m quite irked by how inaccurate these are.”  
“Care to leave, then?” Crowley asked. He wrung his keys around his fingers in his pocket. “Been bored stiff ever since we arrived.”  
“Of course, I can hardly say I’m willing to see much more of this.”  
Aziraphale made his way towards the exit, Crowley slinking along behind. He forced himself to stare at the floor. He could have sworn the walls began closing in on him, the paintings sneering at him as he passed, their weapons at the ready. Their disapproving stares bore into his back, right where his wings should be.  
The scars on his back heated beneath his clothes.  
Fallen.  
A white blanket of curls barely cushioned his head butting into Aziraphale’s.  
“Crowley, dear, weren’t you paying attention?” Aziraphale asked, his brows knitted together in confusion.  
“Why’d you stop?” Crowley rubbed his forehead, grimacing. “You’ve got your hand on the door and everythin’.”  
“Because you didn’t answer me, dear boy. I was ever so slightly worried.”  
“Well, don’t be.”  
Crowley made his way around Aziraphale and out into the street. The cold hit him in a wave. It was cause enough for him to burrow his hands deeper into his pockets and tuck his chin to his chest, eyeing the clouds that formed before him. None of them looked out of the ordinary, though why would they?  
“My dear…” Aziraphale’s voice trailed off behind him.  
Something brushed against his shoulder.  
Crowley jolted and screamed two words he instantly regretted. “Fuck off!”  
It turned out that this “something” was only Aziraphale’s hand, which hung extended between the two of them. Hurt shone in those blue eyes of his, darkening them.  
“Sorry, angel,” Crowley murmured, pulling his coat further around him. “Don’t know what came over me.”  
Aziraphale’s hand dropped, the hurt vanishing as quickly as Crowley could click his fingers. “Whatever’s going on with you, Crowley? You’re hardly ever this jumpy, if jumpy at all.”  
“Nothing.”  
“Crowley—”  
“It’s honestly nothin’, angel,” Crowley said. He ran his thumb over the edge of his car keys, the teeth digging into the skin. “Can we just go somewhere else? I’m bored.”  
Aziraphale seemed grateful for the change in topic. Good. “We can always have a walk around, if you’re up for it, dear. The market is holding a winter fair, I believe!”  
The amount of excitement in Aziraphale’s voice was enough to make any other demon go deaf. For Crowley, it made him smile. “Lead the way.”  
Without another word spoken, Aziraphale almost skipped off down the road, Crowley at his side as they entered the bustling winter market in London. One of many, to be precise.  
Everywhere across England had one or another, some bigger than others. Lo and behold, Soho had its own. Stalls dotted the square, the merchants selling their homemade winter wares and treats, from hats and scarves to sweets that were sold way too early. The scent of sugar attacked Crowley’s senses, the faint whiff of alcohol the only thing he found remotely delicious about these markets.  
Why Aziraphale likes them—these markets—so much, I’ll never know, Crowley thought.  
Crowley kept as close to the angel as he could without it feeling weird and glared at everyone who dared look his way. They stopped a few times to look at home-made crafts. Aziraphale, for whatever reason, bought himself a hat with a cartoon-y bear face on the front.  
“Angel, no,” Crowley groaned as Aziraphale slipped it on, the brightest grin on his face. “Stop.”  
“Whyever would I do that, dear?” Aziraphale chirped. “It looks wonderful!”  
“It's embarrassing!”  
Aziraphale waved him off. “Oh, shush.”  
“No, I—Argh—Aziraphale!”  
In the midst of his complaint, Aziraphale had wandered off, the only indication of him being the bright, bubbly voice that began to grate on his nerves. Bear in mind, this is hardly the first time Crowley had thought about buying an adult-size harness to keep track of him.  
“Angel!” Crowley cried, shoving people to one side. “Hey!”  
“Crowley, come look at this!”  
Crowley growled. He pushed through crowd after crowd of people towards Aziraphale. Whether it was an accident, or an indicator of where he was, Aziraphale’s halo shone above the crowd, making him easy to pinpoint.  
“Will you stop wandering off?” Crowley hissed as he neared, his glare firmly fixed on Aziraphale. “I’m gonna get you a fuckin’ lead if you do it again.”  
Aziraphale smiled at him. “I do apologise, dear, but—” He nudged Crowley’s head away, and towards what had intrigued him. Crowley’s blood chilled. “—I couldn’t help myself.”  
In the middle of the crowd, a circle left for her performance, was a woman with a bright flaming sword.  
Crowley chewed on his bottom lip. He traced the sword’s every movement, how it swung through the air in a figure of eight, how it flipped and landed in her hand, how it edged closer and closer towards her skin.  
Pain sparked his palm. Pulling it out of his pocket only slightly, blood spotted his hand, already drying under his nails.  
“Isn’t she wonderful, dear?” Aziraphale asked, grinning at the sight before him. “It’s a shame it’s not a real sword.”  
“Hardly.”  
“Sorry, dear? I couldn’t quite hear you.”  
“I-It’s nothing, angel,” Crowley said, shoving his hand back into his pocket. “She’s good, tha‘s all.”  
Aziraphale hummed, a bright smile still on his face. “Isn’t she just.”  
Crowley stared at the display, unease roiling in the pit of his stomach, his nerves crackling with nervous energy. He focused on keeping himself looking normal—he forced himself to relax, forced himself to take a deep breath in, as if he was smoking.  
Go—Sat—What I wouldn’t give for a cigarette right now.  
His fingertips brushed the edge of the packet.  
“Angel,” Crowley whispered in Aziraphale’s ear, “I’m just gonna go make sure the Bentley’s alright.”  
Aziraphale gave him a strange look. “Why on earth would you need to check? Surely she’s fine?”  
“She’s an old car. Boiler could be going or somethin’.”  
The fire dancer twirled in the corner of his eye, her sword lighting up the ground around her. Breathe, Crowley.  
“Yet she’s survived every winter so far—”  
“Angel,” Crowley said, a bit harsher than he intended, “I’m going to check her, alright?”  
Aziraphale frowned. “Don’t you snap at me, dear boy.”  
Crowley threw up his hands in surrender. “Fine, but I’m checkin’ the Bentley.”  
Turning on his heel, he made to walk off, each passing second only making his fuse shorter. And yet there was a strange curiosity in him that wanted to see the rest of the performance, to watch the sword go out and be done with it.  
Crowley turned back, hoping the performance would end soon. And, because of him, it was about to.  
The dancer came twirling towards him, her sword slicing the air, if you could even call it one. It was more like a metal rod doused in flammable oil. Far from the flaming sword Aziraphale once had.  
Crowley went rigid. The dancer stared straight at him, a veil covering the lower half of her face, only a pair of shorts and a vest covering the rest of her.  
It took only a second for her to cross the distance between them and thrust the sword towards his chest.  
“Get the fuck away from me!”  
In that moment, Crowley could feel a million pairs of eyes on him, none more prevalent than Aziraphale’s staring right through his little human-like disguise and straight into his soul. It took a couple of seconds for Crowley to register that he’d shot backwards into another crowd of people.  
“I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale said to the woman. She stood there, shocked, if not concerned.  
“It’s fine,” she told him. “Just never had that reaction before. Is he—?” She turned back to Crowley. “—are you okay?”  
Crowley, his hands curled at his sides in fists, dove back into his pockets. He bowed his head and left for the Bentley.  
His heart hammered with every step, thoughts racing in his head, his fingers itching to pull out a cigarette and go somewhere quiet.  
The bookshop towered not too far from the market, with his Bentley just outside in its usual spot. Crowley rushed straight there, lighting a cigarette on the way. The smoke did its magic. The heat got his blood going again. The thoughts calmed, like the ocean after a storm.  
Crowley took a turn not far from the bookshop leading to one of the busier streets, the cigarette between his lips, the end already lit. No one noticed the spark of Hellfire. Grand. It meant he could wander around here without any odd glances from onlookers trying to figure out where his lighter went.  
It took only a couple of minutes to finish it off and put it out in an ashtray on some café's table. However, it took a good ten minutes to find a deodorant he liked the smell of, one that didn’t make his nose hurt or eyes sting, and to douse himself in enough of it that the smell of smoke no longer existed on his lapel took even longer.  
By the time Crowley had finished sorting himself out—including smoothing his hair and straightening his sunglasses—Aziraphale stood outside the bookshop, peering down the street at him.  
“There you are, Crowley!” Aziraphale raced towards him and stopped just short of running into him. “Where on earth did you—?”  
“Went to get some better deodorant,” Crowley said. Technically, it was true.  
Aziraphale sniffed and scrunched his eyes shut. “That’s, er… a rather strong deodorant, my dear.”  
“Yeah, pretty nice though.”  
“If you say so, dearest.”  
Crowley grinned and sauntered up to the bookshop door. “Mind if we go inside? ‘S freezing out here.”  
Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a small cloud of warm air and a soft, “Of course, dear.”  
With a click of Aziraphale’s fingers, the door swung open, letting Crowley inside to chuck his coat over the back of the sofa and to stare at the bookshelves.  
Modern Coin Magic.  
That was all Crowley needed to convince himself this was not just another bizarre dream.  
“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale said. The click of the door accompanied his words. “What happened in the market?”  
Crowley frowned. “Wot?”  
“You’ve been jumpy all day, Crowley. Ever since this morning you’ve been stiffer than a wooden doll, and that poor woman—”  
“She came at me with a flaming rod, Aziraphale.”  
Aziraphale huffed. “It was part of her performance, dear. It’s what she does.”  
“Well I didn’t know that, did I?”  
When Aziraphale said nothing else, Crowley glared into the door. Something that had never been there before caught his eye. It was much more modern than most items in this bookshop, with black tape sealing it and an orange-purple name stretching over the top.  
Crowley froze.  
Aziraphale picked it up as if it were a punnet of grapes and glanced at Crowley. “Are you quite alright, dear?”  
“J-just odd for you to be getting' packages,” Crowley forced out.  
“Well, I must admit—” Aziraphale flipped the package over and over. “—I don’t remember ordering anything. This isn’t one of your little jokes, is it dear?”  
“Nope. Not this time.”  
Frowning, Aziraphale walked over to his desk and plopped the package down on the desk. Crowley’s fingernails dug into his arms. There were too many options for what this package could contain. It could be a practical joke from Adam. It could be a present from Mrs. Dowling. It could be something Crowley ordered and completely forgot about. Or…  
Aziraphale lifted it out from its cardboard casing and stared at it with a mixture of confusion and satisfaction. Crowley backed away. The old red leather wrapped around the blade fell back into the cardboard box.  
So, the inside of the box was his worst nightmare. Perfect.  
“The fuck’s that doing here?”  
Aziraphale came out of his stupor and glanced between Crowley and the sword. “I… I’m not quite sure, dear.”  
“It—I—” Crowley fingernails almost broken the skin underneath them. “That’s—”  
Crowley stood about six feet away from Aziraphale, agony and infinite amounts of hellish fear in his eyes, his gaze firmly fixed on the sword in Aziraphale’s grasp. Everything about it made his skin tingle: the sharp edges, the fact that it was holy, the amount of pain it could inflict on someone like him.  
“I can’t tell you why it’s here, my dear,” Aziraphale said, slight panic in his voice. “I could have sworn I—”  
“You gave it to that fucking delivery man, so why’s it here?”  
“Crowley, I don’t know!”  
“You must do! It’s your damn sword!”  
Aziraphale looked at the sword. It was possibly the worst mistake he could have made. After only handling it twice in the past six thousand years, he must have forgotten that even the slightest glance could set it alight.  
Something Crowley hissed at, like a feral cat.  
Crowley backed himself into a wall, his mind racing with endless possibilities. “Get it the fuck away from me!”  
“Oh, Crowley, I’m not going to hurt you—”  
“And how am I supposed to know that, huh? With that fff-fucking thing in your hand!”  
Aziraphale’s eyes widened and—whether it was accidentally or not, Crowley did not know—took a step towards him. “I would never—!”  
“Stay back!”  
Sweat beaded Crowley’s brow, his sunglasses on the floor, his wings knocking over one or three bookshelves. The thudding of books barely surpassed the blood rushing in his ears.  
For a split second, he could have sworn he found himself in an empty office room, glass surrounding him on all sides.  
Aziraphale put his hand behind him, the flames engulfing the sword continuing to roar and gutter with the movement. Why isn’t he putting the fucking thing out?   
“Crowley, dear, it’s alright,” Aziraphale said, his eyes soft and words softer. “I would never hurt you.”  
The glow from the sword caught him at the wrong angle. It sharpened his face, set fire to his irises, cast a nasty shadow over his features. Crowley did not listen to the kind reassuring words. He could not. The thoughts racing through his mind drowned them out.  
All he could see, stood before him, was a featureless face, a pair of flowing white wings, and a bright flame as he tumbled down.  
“Crowley, listen to me—”  
Crowley backed as far into the wall as he could. “Put that fucking thing out or so help me.”  
Aziraphale glanced at the sword, and the flames finally went out. Crowley’s heart still raced. His blood still pumped through his veins, his nerves still racked with unused fight-or-flight energy. He still stood by the wall, frozen.  
As soon as the flames were out, Aziraphale dropped the sword, letting it clatter on the floor.  
“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale said, smiling, “it’s alright now, it’s out.”  
Crowley sneered. “I can see that.”  
Something darkened Aziraphale’s eyes, but nevertheless he persisted. “Come on, my dear, let’s get you—”  
“Get the fuck away from me.”  
Aziraphale frowned. “Crowley, I promise—”  
“You can’t promise shit!” Crowley’s nails dug into the wall behind him. “That sword’s here because you asked for it!”  
The blue of Aziraphale’s eyes, calm like an lake, darkened until Crowley could have sworn they resembled the depths of the ocean. “Crowley, I will not have you accusing me. I would never hurt you.”  
“And the four Horsemen couldn’t until they had their weapons,” Crowley hissed. “What's to say this is any different?”  
“It’s different because I do not need a sword to harm you, Crowley,” Aziraphale explained.  
Crowley snorted. “And there it is. The confession.”  
Pure, unfiltered offence crossed Aziraphale’s face. “How _dare_ you—”  
“How dare me? How dare _me?_ You took me to a museum filled with religious art and then made me watch some woman who I thought was going to kill me!” Crowley thrust a finger towards the sword on the floor. “And what about that sword? The fuck’s that doing here?”  
“Crowley, I have told you—”  
“And I think you’re taking the piss.”  
Something snapped in Aziraphale as soon as the last word left Crowley’s mouth. Crowley could feel it in the change of atmosphere, in the stone cold expression on Aziraphale’s face, in the guilt that pressed on his stomach.  
The fear subsided a bit just in time for Crowley to catch the heartbreak in Aziraphale’s voice. “Get out of my shop.”  
Crowley’s heart sank. He dare not move. Aziraphale glared straight through him, his hands still at his sides, his back straighter than Crowley had ever seen it, somehow. Crowley’s gaze kept flicking to the sword.  
Despite Aziraphale’s anger, it lay dormant. No fire. No nothing.  
“Get out of my shop, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. Crowley did not miss the crack in his voice.  
“Ang—”  
“Get. Out.”  
Crowley did not bother arguing. He clicked his fingers and stormed out of the bookshop, his coat appearing on his shoulders, with only one thought on his mind.  
You’re a demon pretending to do good.


End file.
